Tulle Death Do Us Part Read online

  “Right back at’cha,” I said.

  Aunt Fiona carried a garment bag and looked guilty for it. “I know you’re busy, dear, and I’m here to help as much as I can, but I need a favor. I want to wear this to the Valentine’s ball, and it’s a little big.”

  “Let’s see.”

  She took it from the garment bag and hung it on an empty rack.

  “Oh, Fee, it’s gorgeous, but is it—?”

  “My mother’s wedding dress. I always wanted to wear it for my own wedding, but let’s face it: Your dad is never going to propose. He likes things the way they are.”

  “Surprise him. Have a party, invite a justice of the peace, wear that. He’ll beg you to make it permanent.”

  “I don’t want to coerce him into marriage, dear. I want him to want me, till death do us part.”

  “Is he stubborn or what, my dad?”

  “Oh, speaking about weddings, and the nonstarters like mine, I wanted to share something we uncovered in our This Is Your Life research.”

  “Tell, tell.”

  “Eric McDowell used to be engaged to Robin O’Dowd.”

  “Hell-o.”

  “Good sleuthing, Fiona,” Werner said. “Mad, I have to go back to work.” His hand caressed the nape of my neck and my eyes closed at the loveliness of his touch.

  Fee cleared her throat. Werner cleared his throat, too, in embarrassment, I thought, as I walked him to the door.

  “Lytton, can you look up a fifty-year line of ownership to the boat named the Yacht Sea? The pleasure craft, not the fishing boat.” I felt the heat on my face for my stupid mistake.

  “Will do,” he said.

  “I had really hoped you’d bring me a picture of Robin. I only got a quick glimpse when I zoned.”

  Aunt Fee gasped. “Mad? He knows?”

  Werner rolled his eyes. “Why does everybody say that?”

  Aunt Fee touched his sleeve. “Because it means that your relationship must be serious. And not everybody loves her enough to believe her.”

  “Serious, yes, and of course I love her enough to believe her.” Werner eyed me like I might be a giant Fudgsicle. Oh, I could feel the licks. Wicked thought.

  “I at least hope I can find a match to Jay’s father’s photo in the batch you brought. Here’s a copy for you. I have my own.” I slipped it from my seventies-orange swing dress pocket and handed it to him.

  “Wanna go dancing tonight?” he asked. “There’s a rock and roll club not far from the casino.”

  “Can we request ‘Running Bear’?” I grinned. “Around seven?”

  He hooked my hair behind my ear, kissed my lobe, and whispered, “Bring an overnight bag.” Then he left.

  Before I started on Fee’s mother’s wedding gown, I moved Jay’s uniform to the to-be-altered rack. As I did, the hem of the jacket swung oddly my way and hit my hip, rather too hard to be made of fabric.

  I hung it then searched the pockets. A breast pocket was entirely unsewn. I slipped my hand down through the open bottom and searched around in the hem. That’s when I found it. Metal and fabric. I pulled it out.

  “Aunt Fee, look at this. Some kind of medal.”

  “Some kind…it’s a Purple Heart, dear.”

  “Does that mean Jay’s father’s dead?”

  “I don’t know, dear. You tell me.”

  “I can’t read objects.”

  “I thought maybe the ribbon.”

  I shrugged. “Not getting anything. Let me put it in my purse so you can show me that gown.”

  Fee’s mother’s wedding gown was a fifties beauty, with three-quarter sleeves, a wide fifties lace-shawl collar, cinched waist, and large lace flowers around the flared, ankle-length hem with leaf fronds that flowed three-quarters of the way up the skirt. Pure white with layers of white tulle poufed beneath. A breathtaking fashion statement for a beautiful and loving bride. Tulle death do us part.

  “I assume that the veil became the train?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s got a pristine pillbox hat that’s packed away in my back closet. I don’t want to give your dad a heart attack. He probably won’t even realize this is a wedding gown. It’s nothing like today’s gowns or even the satin beauty your mother wore. Hers always reminded me of the gown that Julie Andrews wore in The Sound of Music.”

  “You’re different people. If I were to pick a vintage gown, though, I’d pick this one—no offense, Mom,” I said, looking up and around until I smelled the sudden scent of chocolate. Fee’s eyes glistened.

  “Fee. she’s happy for you.”

  “Well, your dad hasn’t asked to marry me, so she has nothing to worry about.”

  “Mom, give him a kick where it counts, will you?” I called. “Get him moving on this.”

  We laughed until we both had to dab our eyes.

  Eve came back to help. She sorted dozens of outfits and thanked me numerous times for her Valentine date. Eventually, I chose the final three outfits for the This Is Your Life segment of the Very Vintage Valentine ball. They were all formals that were, to my knowledge, not connected to the scavenger hunt, aka the Robin O’Dowd case.

  Frankly, things were beginning to percolate in my mind, and I wanted to run a few errands. I did some mighty thinking while driving. “Aunt Fee, can you call the next three This Is Your Lifers and tell them to come for fittings tomorrow? Schedule them for the morning, if possible. I need all the time I can get. The event is creeping up on us fast, and it would be helpful to have tomorrow afternoon to work on the alterations.”

  I drove to Aunt Fee’s house in search of my father and found him in the backyard singing Italian opera at the top of his lungs while building the herbal potting shed of her dreams.

  I crossed my arms and watched, standing stock still to absorb the wonder of this man, who practically raised his four chilren alone. How lucky was I?

  He spotted me and clamped his lips tight, looking like a shy pup. “Hey, Madeira. Didn’t see you.”

  “No kidding. But why be shy about it? You sing in the shower, you know.”

  He shook his head and swooped in for a hug. “What brings you home in the middle of the day?”

  “Well, this may be your home, but mine is down the street until Alex and Trish move in.”

  “I mean, the neighborhood type of home.”

  “No, you didn’t. You think of this as home now, and that’s okay. Dad, we have got to talk.”

  “You want to move in with your detective?”

  “When the time’s right, and speaking of timing…”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You listen, I’ll talk. No quotes allowed.”

  We went inside and sat on the sofa together. I took his hand. He squeezed it occasionally and took my observations well, I must say, even if they came with a rap on the knuckles, though I added a kiss to soften my blow.

  He looked rattled when he stood, but he went to his jacket pocket and took something out.

  “Fee should see these first, but I couldn’t stand you thinking that I would do what you told me to.”

  I chuckled because I’m the same way.

  He opened a paper and handed it to me.

  “A marriage license? Fee signed it but she doesn’t know what it is, does she?”

  “No, and don’t you tell her. I tricked her. I told her it was the building permit for the potting shed to get her to sign.”

  I screamed at the top of my lungs and threw myself at him. He twirled me, and I adored the robust sound of his laughter. Oh, Mom, he’s happy again.

  “How you gonna do it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can I see inside that tiny square box?”

  “No. This, Fee gets to see first, and she never ever hears about this talk, got it?”

  I raised a hand. “You beat me to the punch.”

  “Damn straight I did.”

  He set an arm around my shoulders. “‘While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what lif
e is all about.’ Angela Schwindt said that. Thanks for caring enough to try, kiddo.”

  After I left my father, I went back to the house to get ready for my date and overnight with Werner.

  First thing the next morning, after a Werner-specialty homemade breakfast, I set Fee and Dolly up at the shop, and went to look at the Yacht Sea in its slip at the marina, hoping for clues to a forty-year-old personal attack. Instead I found Eric McDowell himself—in grungy jeans on his knees shining brass.

  “You’re into boats these days, Ms. Cutler?”

  “You heard that I got covered in fish on the Yacht C?”

  “Yes,” he said on a chuckle. “I presume you were sleuthing and thought you’d found this boat, since the old scavenger hunt case is open again. You know, fishermen rarely join the country club. You didn’t notice that there was a Yacht A and a Yacht B beside it?”

  I took a deep breath, calling myself: stupid, stupid, stupid. “It was dark.”

  “So I hear. At any rate, I would have given you the tour of this McDowell yacht at anytime.” He offered me his arm so I could climb aboard.

  “I realize that now. You know, Councilman, you have always confused me.”

  “You feel like dusting for prints, don’t you? Go ahead. Need help? I’m your man.”

  He indicated that I should precede him as if I could wander around the luxury yacht at will.

  “I was a suspect once, wasn’t I?” he asked. “Maybe I am again?”

  “Maybe you took part in that old scavenger hunt.”

  His brows furrowed and he crossed his arms to lean against the rail. “I don’t know how, but you know that I did, which is not an admission of guilt where Ms. O’Dowd was concerned.”

  “Maybe. I like this boat. It has a history,” I said to gauge his reaction. “Zavier loves it. You must be glad your father got him out on bail this morning. Where are you going?” I asked as McDowell swung himself over the rail and off his boat in one leap.

  “To protect my brother, I’ll get custody if I have to.”

  McDowell wanted to take Zavier away from their father? Why? I called Werner to share that bit of news and barely finished when I got another caller beeping in. I said a quick “bye, love you” to Werner and took the next call.

  “Mad,” Eve said. “I had dinner at Jay’s last night. His grandmother is kind of psychic like him, and she knows a lot about the fiftieth. You might want to trump up a reason to go there and talk to her.”

  “You never send me out sleuthing, Eve. What’s with you today?”

  “Whatever you uncover might help Jay find his dad. I’d like to see that happen for him, ’kay?”

  “You’re smitten.”

  “From the minute I laid eyes on him. You knew that.”

  “I did but I wanted to hear you admit it.”

  I didn’t need to trump up anything more than a Purple Heart, thanks to a cooperative universe. Jay’s father had been wounded. He might even be dead.

  I set my Garmin for Jay’s address. This global positioning system was the answer to my prayers. Every directionally-challenged person should own one. With it, I took a ride to Rhode Island to meet the grandmother who raised Jay, Airman Gilchrist, so well.

  When his grandmother came to the door, my last hope for finding a living Robin O’Dowd vanished. Fee and my dad were in their early sixties. Jay’s grandmother might be Ethel Sweet’s peer, early eighties.

  “Mrs. Gilchrist, my name is Madeira Cutler. I’m from Mystic.”

  “Vintage Magic, right? You fit my grandson to his father’s uniform yesterday morning. You made a positive and lasting impression on him.”

  “The feeling was mutual. As a matter of fact, he’s taking my best friend to the country club event. We’re double dating.”

  “Eve, yes. I met her last night. You’re not as darklydressed as she is.”

  How kind she was. I chuckled as Mrs. Gilchrist led me into a house straight out of the seventies. Red maple furniture, ruffled lampshades, a spinning wheel in the corner. In the open kitchen, harvest gold appliances and knotty pine cabinets. “Chai tea?” she asked, a trend almost too much with the times in this place. “Can I interest you in a fresh lemon square? Still warm.”

  I was suddenly ten and she was Dolly Sweet trying to make me forget that I’d lost my mother.

  “This is a home, not a house,” I said. “You’re making me feel like company instead of a stranger.”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Yes, guilt. I wanted to ask you about the Mystick Country Club’s fiftieth. Eve said you might be able to help with the investigation, though I do have something for you.” I set the Purple Heart on the cobbler’s bench coffee table between us. “I found it in the lining of your son’s airman’s uniform.”

  She picked it up lovingly, although her expression was shocked. “I didn’t know. He was awarded a Purple Heart and then went missing soon after. I had no idea that Glen survived, and came back home, only to disappear again.” She took out a linen handkerchief with a crochet edging and wiped her eyes.

  I let my throat work to keep me from joining her.

  The woman with her hair in a gray bun and Victorian combs holding it together stood resolutely, went into the kitchen, and silently made me a chai tea, though I hadn’t said yes. And now she set a plate of lemon squares between us and sat in a big overstuffed chair across from me. I could tell she was still processing the news, but she seemed determined to remain in an upbeat mood. “Jay is an excellent judge of character, and your friend Eve is the first girl he’s ever taken home for dinner then talked about for so long after bringing her home.”

  “We might have a match, but…well, she marches to her own drummer.”

  “More than me with my old-fashioned taste? I’m disappointed.”

  “A lot more.”

  “Locks on her ankle straps, black and copper, goth, right?”

  We laughed. “Really, why sit still for my questions, Mrs. Gilchrist? Especially after the news I shared with you.”

  “One, I’m polite. Two, they reopened the scavenger-hunt case and the detective is your boyfriend, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  She raised her chin. “Well, as my grandson is fond of saying, granite is granite, impervious, no matter how hard you try to break it, unless you have the right tools to cut into it, make something beautiful of it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She pulled back the curtain and I saw the stonecutter next door, headstones lined the yard. I had parked on the other side, so this was my first sight of it.

  “Family business. My oldest nephew runs it for me,” she said. “We use granite a lot in metaphors around here.”

  Thirty

  Mount on French heels when you go to a ball,

  ’Tis the fashion to totter and show you can fall.

  —“A RECEIPT FOR MODERN DRESS,” 1753

  As I drove home from Scituate, I realized that my trip had netted me some extra background information for our This Is Your Life segment.

  Instead of going home I went directly to the police station.

  “Billings,” I said, going in. “Is your boss—”

  “Go right in, Mad,” Billings said.

  “Don’t you have to announce me so he can complain—”

  “New rule. You get to go right in, if he’s not interrogating a perp or answering to a government official. As for complaining, he hasn’t chewed any of us out in a couple’a weeks, thanks to you.”

  I sailed right by him and into Werner’s office. He didn’t even look up, so I shut his door, easy-like.

  He looked up but his frown turned to a grin.

  I grinned as well, in anticipation, as he came toward me. I had never been pinned against this particular door before.

  When we came up for air, I remembered him shutting the file in front of him when he saw me.

  He now shook his head. “The O’Dowd case really doesn’t add up. I wish I knew who the gu
y you call Snake was.”

  “That’s looking possible all of a sudden.”

  “How can we make it a viable fact?”

  “As in motivation, means, opportunity? Get this…”

  I told Werner the details of how another puzzle accidently fell into place that could help lead us to that viable fact and I got another kiss for my brilliance.

  “See?” I said. “Me sleuthing has perks.”

  “Try reminding me about that the next time I pull you from the bottom of a well.”

  “That’s old news,” I said. “Have I been as sloppy in recent years or during recent cases?”

  “I plead the fifth,” he said

  I threw my arms around him and we held to the embrace, our cheeks pressed together. Just content to hold on. Something else new to my life.

  I hated to break the moment, but we had a case to solve and I had an idea that came with a timeline and a ticking clock. “You had an appointment with Eric McDowell today, didn’t you?” I asked, as a reason to step back and toy with my guy’s tie. “Did you find out why he wants custody of his brother, Zavier? Gimme details.”

  “Details I got, but they have no basis in fact.”

  Proving things was our—Werner’s—job. “Suppose you interview all the suspects one more time and ask one more question.”

  “Ah,” he said, nodding, his mind working.

  “After you do that,” I said, “you’ll either have straight answers or reactions, all of which will be reason enough to bring it to the final segment of This Is Your Life.”

  “In front of all those people?”

  “I was thinking that we should move the dancing to before dinner, even through cocktails, so people can get the celebrating out of their systems. We have five guests that are, let’s face it—after perusing Dad and Fee’s backgrounds on them and their surprise guests—rather anti-climactic. By then, the attendees might want to go home.”

  Werner grabbed his all-weather coat and opened his door so I could precede him out.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going home.”

  “Why?”

  Werner roared. “You still have to ask?”